I hate it when you travel and leave me at home. I miss you. That’s why I got in your suitcase. I was expressing my love and devotion. I didn’t mean to shed voluminous amounts of white hair on your expensive black suit just out of the dry cleaners.

And Dad just doesn’t understand when you leave me home with him. (I don’t mean to tattle. But, once when you were gone, he turned me pink when he tried to bathe me after letting me step in wet red paint from the NO PARKING ZONE refresher coat.)

To Dad:

Sorry, but you just don’t understand me like Mom does.

She bathes me in organic hypoallergenic dog shampoo with a hint of lavender scent, treats me with organic salmon and buffalo treats, cooks me organic chicken with red quinoa, wakes up in the middle of the night to take me out to potty, wakes up at 4 a.m. to feed me breakfast, lets me bark at dogs on TV without scolding me, tells me how smart I am when I remind her to brush my teeth every night, lets me nap on her yoga mat, runs to pet me when I whimper, lifts me on and off the sofa, lets me sniff the baby doves and quails, lets me chase the lizards … basically anything and everything I want.

I do like to watch TV with you though, Dad. It’s just that it gets old after six hours of non-stop sports and drama shows. (Mom knows I like the dog shows.)